Once There Was a King

"Once upon a time there was a king."

When we were children there was no need to know who the king in the
fairy story was. It didn't matter whether he was called Shiladitya or
Shaliban, whether he lived at Kashi or Kanauj. The thing that made a
seven-year-old boy's heart go thump, thump with delight was this one
sovereign truth; this reality of all realities: "Once there was a
king."

But the readers of this modern age are far more exact and exacting.
When they hear such an opening to a story, they are at once critical and
suspicious. They apply the searchlight of science to its legendary haze
and ask: "Which king? "

The story-tellers have become more precise in their turn. They are no
longer content with the old indefinite, "There was a king," but assume
instead a look of profound learning, and begin: "Once there was a king
named Ajatasatru,"

The modern reader's curiosity, however, is not so easily satisfied. He
blinks at the author through his scientific spectacles, and asks again:
"Which Ajatasatru? "

"Every schoolboy knows," the author proceeds, "that there were three
Ajatasatrus. The first was born in the twentieth century B.C., and died
at the tender age of two years and eight months, I deeply regret that
it is impossible to find, from any trustworthy source, a detailed
account of his reign. The second Ajatasatru is better known to
historians. If you refer to the new Encyclopedia of History. . . ."

By this time the modem reader's suspicions are dissolved. He feels he
may safely trust his author. He says to himself: "Now we shall have a
story that is both improving and instructive."

Ah! how we all love to be deluded! We have a secret dread of being
thought ignorant. And we end by being ignorant after all, only we have
done it in a long and roundabout way.

There is an English proverb ; "Ask me no questions, and I will tell you
no lies." The boy of seven who is listening to a fairy story
understands that perfectly well; he withholds his questions, while the
story is being told. So the pure and beautiful falsehood of it all
remains naked and innocent as a babe; transparent as truth itself;
limpid as afresh bubbling spring. But the ponderous and learned lie of
our moderns has to keep its true character draped and veiled. And if
there is discovered anywhere the least little peep-hole of deception,
the reader turns away with a prudish disgust, and the author is
discredited.

When we were young, we understood all sweet things; and we could detect
the sweets of a fairy story by an unerring science of our own. We never
cared for such useless things as knowledge. We only cared for truth.
And our unsophisticated little hearts knew well where the Crystal Palace
of Truth lay and how to reach it. But to-day we are expected to write
pages of facts, while the truth is simply this:

"There was a king."

I remember vividly that evening in Calcutta when the fairy story began.
The rain and the storm had been incessant. The whole of the city was
flooded. The water was knee-deep in our lane. I had a straining hope,
which was almost a certainty, that my tutor would be prevented from
coming that evening. I sat on the stool in the far corner of the
veranda looking down the lane, with a heart beating faster and faster.
Every minute I kept my eye on the rain, and when it began to grow less I
prayed with all my might; "Please, God, send some more rain till half-past
seven is over." For I was quite ready to believe that there was no
other need for rain except to protect one helpless boy one evening in
one corner of Calcutta from the deadly clutches of his tutor.

If not in answer to my prayer, at any rate according to some grosser law
of physical nature, the rain did not give up.

But, alas ! nor did my teacher.

Exactly to the minute, in the bend of the lane, I saw his approaching
umbrella. The great bubble of hope burst in my breast, and my heart
collapsed. Truly, if there is a punishment to fit the crime after
death, then my tutor will be born again as me, and I shall be born as my
tutor.

As soon as I saw his umbrella I ran as hard as I could to my mother's
room. My mother and my grandmother were sitting opposite one another
playing cards by the light of a lamp. I ran into the room, and flung
myself on the bed beside my mother, and said:

"Mother dear, the tutor has come, and I have such a bad headache;
couldn't I have no lessons today?"

I hope no child of immature age will be allowed to read this story, and
I sincerely trust it will not be used in text-books or primers for
schools. For what I did was dreadfully bad, and I received no
punishment whatever. On the contrary, my wickedness was crowned with
success.

My mother said to me: "All right," and turning to the servant added:
"Tell the tutor that he can go back home."

It was perfectly plain that she didn't think my illness very serious, as
she went on with her game as before, and took no further notice. And I
also, burying my head in the pillow, laughed to my heart's content. We
perfectly understood one another, my mother and I.

But every one must know how hard it is for a boy of seven years old to
keep up the illusion of illness for a long time. After about a minute I
got hold of Grandmother, and said: "Grannie, do tell me a story."

I had to ask this many times. Grannie and Mother went on playing cards,
and took no notice. At last Mother said to me: "Child, don't bother.
Wait till we've finished our game." But I persisted: "Grannie, do
tell me a story." I told Mother she could finish her game to-morrow,
but she must let Grannie tell me a story there and then.

At last Mother threw down the cards and said: "You had better do what he
wants. I can't manage him." Perhaps she had it in her mind that she
would have no tiresome tutor on the morrow, while I should be obliged to
be back to those stupid lessons.

As soon as ever Mother had given way, I rushed at Grannie. I got hold
of her hand, and, dancing with delight, dragged her inside my mosquito
curtain on to the bed. I clutched hold of the bolster with both hands
in my excitement, and jumped up and down with joy, and when I had got a
little quieter, said: "Now, Grannie, let' s have the story!"

Grannie went on: "And the king had a queen." That was good to begin
with. He had only one.

It is usual for kings in fairy stories to be extravagant in queens. And
whenever we hear that there are two queens, our hearts begin to sink.
One is sure to be unhappy. But in Grannie's story that danger was past.
He had only one queen.

We next hear that the king had not got any son. At the age of seven I
didn't think there was any need to bother if a man had had no son. He
might only have been in the way. Nor are we greatly excited when we
hear that the king has gone away into the forest to practise austerities
in order to get a son. There was only one thing that would have made me
go into the forest, and that was to get away from my tutor!

But the king left behind with his queen a small girl, who grew up into a
beautiful princess.

Twelve years pass away, and the king goes on practising austerities, and
never thinks all this while of his beautiful daughter. The princess has
reached the full bloom of her youth. The age of marriage has passed,
but the king does not return. And the queen pines away with grief and
cries : "Is my golden daughter destined to die unmarried? Ah me! What
a fate is mine."

Then the queen sent men to the king to entreat him earnestly to come
back for a single night and take one meal in the palace. And the king
consented.

The queen cooked with her own hand, and with the greatest care, sixty-four
dishes, and made a seat for him of sandal-wood, and arranged the
food in plates of gold and cups of silver. The princess stood behind
with the peacock-tail fan in her hand. The king, after twelve years'
absence, came into the house, and the princess waved the fan, lighting
up all the room with her beauty. The king looked in his daughter's
face, and forgot to take his food.

At last he asked his queen: "Pray, who is this girl whose beauty shines
as the gold image of the goddess? Whose daughter is she?"

The queen beat her forehead, and cried: "Ah, how evil is my fate
! Do you not know your own daughter?"

The king was struck with amazement. He said at last; "My tiny daughter
has grown to be a woman."

"What else? " the queen said with a sigh. "Do you not know
that twelve years have passed by?"

"But why did you not give her in marriage? " asked the king.

"You were away," the queen said. "And how could I find her a
suitable husband?"

The king became vehement with excitement. "The first man I see
to-morrow," he said, "when I come out of the palace shall marry her."

The princess went on waving her fan of peacock feathers, and the
king finished his meal.

The next morning, as the king came out of his palace, he saw the son of
a Brahman gathering sticks in the forest outside the palace gates. His
age was about seven or eight.

The king said: "I will marry my daughter to him."

Who can interfere with a king's command? At once the boy was called,
and the marriage garlands were exchanged between him and the princess.

At this point I came up close to my wise Grannie and asked her eagerly:
"What then? "

In the bottom of my heart there was a devout wish to substitute
myself for that fortunate wood-gatherer of seven years old. The
night was resonant with the patter of rain. The earthen lamp by
my bedside was burning low. My grandmother's voice droned on as she
told the story. And all these things served to create in a corner of my
credulous heart the belief that I had been gathering sticks in the dawn
of some indefinite time in the kingdom of some unknown king, and in a
moment garlands had been exchanged between me and the princess,
beautiful as the Goddess of Grace. She had a gold band on her hair and
gold earrings in her ears. She bad a necklace and bracelets of gold,
and a golden waist-chain round her waist, and a pair of golden anklets
tinkled above her feet.

If my grandmother were an author how many explanations she would have to
offer for this little story! First of all, every one would ask why the
king remained twelve years in the forest? Secondly, why should the
king's daughter remain unmarried all that while? This would be regarded
as absurd.

Even if she could have got so far without a quarrel, still there would
have been a great hue and cry about the marriage itself. First, it
never happened. Secondly, how could there be a marriage between a
princess of the Warrior Caste and a boy of the priestly Brahman Caste?
Her readers would have imagined at once that the writer was preaching
against our social customs in an underhand way. And they would write
letters to the papers.

So I pray with all my heart that my grandmother may be born a
grandmother again, and not through some cursed fate take birth as her
luckless grandson.

So with a throb of joy and delight, I asked Grannie: "What then?"

Grannie went on: Then the princess took her little husband away
in great distress, and built a large palace with seven wings, and
began to cherish her husband with great care.

I jumped up and down in my bed and clutched at the bolster more
tightly than ever and said: "What then?"

Grannie continued : The little boy went to school and learnt many
lessons from his teachers, and as he grew up his class-fellows began to
ask him: "Who is that beautiful lady who lives with you in the palace
with the seven wings? " The Brahman's son was eager to know who she
was. He could only remember how one day he had been gathering sticks,
and a great disturbance arose. But all that was so long ago, that he
had no clear recollection.

Four or five years passed in this way. His companions always asked him:
"Who is that beautiful lady in the palace with the seven wings?" And
the Brahman's son would come back from school and sadly tell the
princess: "My school companions always ask me who is that beautiful lady
in the palace with the seven wings, and I can give them no reply. Tell
me, oh, tell me, who you are!"

The princess said : "Let it pass to-day. I will tell you some other
day." And every day the Brahman's son would ask; "Who are you? " and
the princess would reply: "Let it pass to-day. I will tell you some
other day." In this manner four or five more years passed away.

At last the Brahman's son became very impatient, and said: "If you do
not tell me to-day who you are, O beautiful lady, I will leave this
palace with the seven wings." Then the princess said: "I will certainly
tell you to-morrow."

Next day the Brahman's son, as soon as he came home from school, said:
"Now, tell me who you are." The princess said: "To-night I will tell
you after supper, when you are in bed."

The Brahman's son said : "Very well " ; and he began to count the hours
in expectation of the night. And the princess, on her side, spread
white flowers over the golden bed, and lighted a gold lamp with fragrant
oil, and adorned her hair, and dressed herself in a beautiful robe of
blue, and began to count the hours in expectation of the night.

That evening when her husband, the Brahman's son, had finished his meal,
too excited almost to eat, and had gone to the golden bed in the bed-chamber
strewn with flowers, he said to himself: "To-night I shall
surely know who this beautiful lady is in the palace with the seven
wings."

The princess took for her the food that was left over by her husband,
and slowly entered the bed-chamber. She had to answer that night the
question, which was the beautiful lady who lived in the palace with
the seven wings. And as she went up to the bed to tell him she found a
serpent had crept out of the flowers and had bitten the Brahman's son.
Her boy-husband was lying on the bed of flowers, with face pale in
death.

But what is the use of going on any further with the story? It would
only lead on to what was more and more impossible. The boy of seven did
not know that, if there were some "What then? " after death, no
grandmother of a grandmother could tell us all about it.

But the child's faith never admits defeat, and it would snatch at the
mantle of death itself to turn him back. It would be outrageous for him
to think that such a story of one teacherless evening could so suddenly
come to a stop. Therefore the grandmother had to call back her story
from the ever-shut chamber of the great End, but she does it so simply:
it is merely by floating the dead body on a banana stem on the river,
and having some incantations read by a magician. But in that rainy
night and in the dim light of a lamp death loses all its horror in the
mind of the boy, and seems nothing more than a deep slumber of a single
night. When the story ends the tired eyelids are weighed down with
sleep. Thus it is that we send the little body of the child floating on
the back of sleep over the still water of time, and then in the morning
read a few verses of incantation to restore him to the world of life and
light.